I've been determinedly reading through the Oxford Book of American Verse - a long project, and one I've questioned as the poets seem to become increasingly disillusioned and corrupt as one advances chronologically through the pages, but it also portrays a mental history of our nation that is enlightening. There are gems in those pages, and also glimpses of hell. When I finished the section of Hart Crane's poems (highly non-recommended) this morning, I felt inspired to write a fresh poem to lift my spirits and remind me that the world is beautiful and good under God. This one is about the hope that summer reflects to me.
Waiting Summer
Waiting Summer
Green this heavy
I only dreamed,
I only dreamed,
When east wind
rattled the crying twigs
pleading the chill
white sky -
How long?
'Til the red
life blood of spring
Will make us live,
and robe us with a
and robe us with a
weight of glory?
I scarcely dreamed
when the first gold
shone
on the waking
boughs.
That now was the
beginning of
It won’t be long.
